Chester and Jonathan rode through the night. The sand underneath Biscuit and Magnus’s hooves turned from sand to dirt. They weren’t out of Maskiff yet, but they were getting close to the border.

They didn’t know if Ciley was working with anyone or if she was able to get a healing potion. However, even if she got a healing potion, it wasn’t likely Ciley’s eyesight would be restored. Healing potions were, ironically, not magic. They increased a body’s ability and rate of healing, but it was not possible to do feats such as restoring limbs.

They stopped for a break at dawn, counting on the light giving them better visibility in case of an attack.

“Are we going to talk about Oceton helping us by setting a mage on fire?” Chester asked. The bard had his head in his hands.

“Apparently, yes.” Jonathan sighed and looked at the bird in question, who was pecking underneath a log to look for things to eat.

“The only thing that fits is that Oceton is a phoenix.” Chester looked up and stared at his friend. “It’s just . . . the only eggs left are locked up and like three royal families even claim to have one.”

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking of.” Jonathan rolled his eyes. “I found it in the woods. If Oceton is a phoenix, his parents must have survived in secret.”

Chester held eye contact for a few moments and then nodded. He didn’t think his friend would lie to him about this. “None of this makes sense, but I believe you didn’t steal it.”

The next day, they ended up crossing onto a small dirt path that barely stood out among the rest of the dusty plains. After some deliberation, Jonathan suggested sticking to this small path headed West and Chester agreed.

Along the way, the two men spotted a group ahead of them. The group ahead had stopped for the night, and the travelers greeted each other.

“I’m Chester. We’re bards, going to Alita,” Chester explained. He was smiling slightly. “Where are you headed?”

“We’re mercenaries from Malamut. We need to get back home for the eclipse holidays.” The person who answered was tall and covered in scars. His sword, hanging on his back, was a heavy zweihander. “I’m Buffo.” He had broken out into a brilliant smile; the feeling of friendliness was dampened by the old scar that cut through his lips.

“Jonathan.” He wasn’t sure how holidays worked in Malamut, but the transmigrator was suspicious of that being why they were headed home. “What way are you using to get to Malamut?”

There was a thin wiry man beside Buffo. He seemed unimpressed with the two travelers. “Why do you want to know?” A strange assortment of knives hung from the belt at his side.

“Rando, it’s fine,” Buffo assured. He patted the shorter man on the shoulder.

“It’s really not,” Rando responded dryly, “But fine. We’re going to use the Carta River, it starts in the East of Celtie and the Western split runs all the way through Malamut.”

“You don’t have a boat,” Jonathan pointed out bluntly.

“We don’t need one.” Rando’s expression was irate. “There’s some river pirates who are honorable enough to give a ride in exchange for a fee.”

“And how about you all, are you honorable enough to give us some peace of mind for a fee?” Chester paused a few times, but he delivered the offer without sounding too awkward.

Rando crossed his arms. He still seemed on guard. “We’re honorable. My question is, what kind of help are you wanting? We don’t do assassinations, especially not when on the road.”

“We’re scared of bandits. Maskiff and Malamut are rather notorious for being unsafe.” Chester’s grin had resurfaced with forced enthusiasm. “If you give us protection while we’re on the road together, we can pay you ten gold.”

Jonathan glanced at the bard, but didn’t argue.

Buffo whistled. The swordsman seemed happy with that amount, as he should due to it being such a large amount.

Rando was still skeptical, but caved. “Half now, half later,” he negotiated.

Chester agreed and forked over five gold pieces.

Rando bit on the gold to test them. His frown worsened when all of the coins passed.

“Wonderful! Let’s go introduce you two to my band of mercenaries.” Buffo slapped Chester on the back.

Chester staggered. A wince slipped onto his expression. He was built for music—or deceit—not for strength. He pasted his smile on again. “Sure.”

Jonathan followed behind Chester. He didn’t really remember all of the names. Most of the mercenaries were forgettable and normal. There were only two who really stood out to him.

Hans Legen who was a fighter and the only designated cook. He was a ginger with short hair, and dressed in a more clean manner than the others; his button up shirt made him look out of place. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There was something wrong with his smile. He didn’t seem to be smiling at a human, so much as analyzing and watching an ant that had crawled by.

“Yeah, same to you,” Jonathan returned. He resolved to never get on Hans’ bad side; it was an important tactic to always stay on the good side of a cook anyways.

When Jonathan excused himself and went to find Chester, he also found out about the second interesting mercenary among the rest.

A group of three mercenaries were telling stories to Chester as they worked on stoking several fires and boiling water for Hans. Many of these were about a member of the mercenaries. Bob, as he was simply named, had many legends associated with him. No one was sure how many were true and Bob refused to explain. The band wouldn’t have believed the legends to be true if not for how terrifying Bob was when deployed to the field with them.

“I’ve seen him fight and win against five men at once,” the first claimed.

“It’s true,” the second mercenary vouched, nodding furiously.

“See, here’s the awesome part!” The third one, a woman, was incredibly enthusiastic. “Bob is also famous because in up north beyond the known lands, he killed a dragon in one swing of his sword.”

Chester was listening attentively, nodding at certain points. The bard looked enthralled, just as excited as the story telling trio.

“Are you planning to write a song about this?” Jonathan asked quietly.

“I might.” Chester shrugged.

“Please don’t.”

Rando interrupted before Chester had a chance to argue for his lyrical abilities. He sat down on the dirt opposite Chester and Jonathan, but ignored them and talked to the three mercenaries. “Hans is asking for you three. Go bring him the water. I’ll take care of the fires.”

The trio of mercenaries cursed and accepted Rando’s help. Each lifted up a pot of water and walked over to where Hans had set up.

“I don’t believe you’re scared of bandits. You’re running from someone, or something.” Rando stirred a quickly dying fire with a long stick and carefully added some kindling to the coals. “Don’t try to argue with me. That doesn’t matter to me unless whatever it is catches up, or gets one of the band killed.”

Jonathan responded before Chester had a chance to, “That’s fair.” Fortunately, the person who was chasing them would likely never catch up.

Chester laughed. He leaned back and complimented, “You’re a good leader.”

“ . . . I’m not the leader.” Rando was back to looking irritated. “Buffo is.”

Jonathan snorted softly. He would have to see more of how the mercenaries worked to be sure, but the transmigrator strongly disagreed.

A/N

It is here, a bit later than usual, but here. I’ve still bit out of sorts from Technoblade’s passing this week. Blood for the blood god.

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